


The Shadow

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call her the Shadow of the Queen, silent as death. </p>
<p> It is a dangerous thing, to be so notorious so young.  No one knows that better than Jaime Lannister.</p>
<p>Written for the <a href="http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/1067.html">Game of Thrones Exchange Comment Fic Meme</a> on LiveJournal.  The prompt was:  Jaime, Arya; </p>
<p>
  <i>He does not hear his name in that litany of hers. He pushed her brother through a window, ambushed her father, and waged war on her family.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She should have added it by now . . .</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow

Jaime enters the Great Hall of Winterfell in the earliest morning hours, still shuddering from the bracing cold of the training fields. He drops down onto a bench and shunts his longsword to the side as he tucks his shoulders in and winces- _it’s just as bloody cold inside as it is out...maybe even colder._

It’s barely after sunrise, and he quite appreciates the time alone- or, at least, he thinks he is alone. A glint of steel in his peripheral vision jerks him to attention, and he utters a startled cry before leaping up from his seat and turning around. When his green eyes lock on a large, calm, unimpressed pair of grey ones, he relaxes his posture just a little.

“Lady Arya,” he begins, inclining his head in a courteous nod. “We were not anticipating a visit from you.”

She just shrugs and rolls her eyes- she always arrives unannounced, unexpectedly, as surreptitious in this as she is with everything else. The denizens of Winterfell whisper about their lady’s sister as reverently as they would a figure of legend- _Shadow of the Queen, silent as death_. Jaime feels nearly sorry for her sometimes- he knows all too well the dangers of excessive notoriety, especially for one so young. 

And she is; so very, very young. He knows her to be Sansa’s junior by a couple of years- that would make her sixteen now. But when he looks at her, small and slight and still, she seems quite ageless. She could be a child of ten or a woman of thirty- if he didn’t know better, he’d believe it either way. 

She glances up just for a moment, barely deigning to acknowledge him with a nod. “Kingslayer,” she says by way of greeting, and she waits for a reaction. When he fails to produce one, she looks back down at the tiny sword she’s been polishing.

(The old adage is rarely spoken these days- is, in fact, forbidden. To his surprise, the ban had come from Daenerys Stormborn herself; the queen misinterpreted Ser Jaime’s “title” as one of respect and honor, and she made it clear to all at court that she never wished to hear it again. Arya Stark is the only person to use it with any regularity- she’ll do as she likes. Even the Dragon Queen understands that much.)

Jaime hazards a smile. “Best not let your sister hear any of that.” He hopes for a moment that she might scoff, might return his sardonic grin- but she only huffs a breath through her nose and shakes her head. 

Arya’s lack of interest in conversation is apparent, but that’s certainly never stopped Jaime before. He slides to the edge of his bench and watches her work on the sword- _hardly more than a dagger, really. No proper weapon at all._

She pretends not to notice his eyes on her, but he catches a slight movement in her jaw- there is tension building there, without a doubt. 

“Haven’t you anything better to do, _Lord Commander_?” she hisses at last, still refusing to turn her head and look at him. 

“It’s too early even for the kitchen servants. My opportunities for diversion are sadly small.” 

Arya purses her lips together and tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword. “It’s hardly gentlemanly, to let Sansa wake up alone.” 

And he laughs at that, an incredulous burst at her audacity. Arya lifts her eyebrows and fixes him with a stare, as though daring him to deny it- _but why bother? It’s hardly a secret, anyway..._

“I think she prefers it, to be honest. She likes her space, her little routines...she doesn’t take very kindly to distractions...”

He’s pushing too far now, and while a part of him would dearly love to yank on the little wolf’s tail to see if she’ll bite, he changes the subject instead.

 

“That’s a pretty little toy,” he drawls, nodding at the sword in her lap. “Useful, I imagine, should you need to open a letter or tear out a seam...”

“I could tear your face apart with it in a second, so quick that you’d never even have time to scream.” 

Her grey eyes- Ned Stark’s eyes, _Lyanna_ Stark’s eyes- come alive at once, and Jaime feels a cold sting in his belly- _How many people have looked into those eyes as they heaved their dying breaths_? It distresses him more than he’d care to admit, to think of this wispy little noblewoman, the younger sister of the sweet, deliberate, patient Lady of Winterfell, Ned Stark’s runty little daughter as the country’s most feared assassin. And it isn’t her age- he’d been younger than she when he received his white cloak. Nor is it her gender- he’s spent too much time with Brienne to hold Arya’s womanhood against her. But this girl is not a warrior in the traditional sense...she’s not a knight. She’s something far more savage, far more deadly.

The last time Arya appeared in Winterfell, he’d come upon her in the stables, throwing knives at a target on the wall. As she flung each blade through the air, she recited something under her breath- as he drew closer, Jaime recognized the litany of names- “King Joffrey...The Tickler...Raff the Sweetling....Queen Cersei...” He hitched his breath at the last, and she whirled around, brandishing her knife in his direction. 

“What are you whispering about?” he inquired, unsure whether he wanted to hear an answer. 

He quite expected her to leave without a word, as she usually did whenever he addressed her- he blinked with surprise when she stepped toward him, her little bird-like face stretched in an unnerving approximation of a smile. 

“A list. A list of all who’ve wronged me, who’ve wronged my family. It’s an older list, this one- most of the people are dead already.” Her smile broadened, and Jaime felt a sudden urge to turn and run, run as fast as he could. 

“It’s about time to start a new one, I suppose.”

He forced the panic down and tried to make light of her words, returning her smile and saying casually, “Should I be worried, my lady?”

She spun the knife in her hand- blade over and under and over and under. “If I wanted you dead, Kingslayer, you’d be dead already.” When she finally stilled the knife and slipped it into the little scabbard at her waist, he breathed an exhale of relief. 

But she made no move to leave. Her voice- still lightly tinged with a Braavosi accent- dropped low and quiet- “If I did anything to harm you, my sister would not like it. Sansa’s problem, you see, is that she forgives anyone who is kind to her.” 

Jaime couldn’t quite agree with that statement- the image of Petyr Baelish’s bleeding corpse still lingered too vividly in his mind- but he kept his counsel. 

“She says that you’ve redeemed yourself and sworn your sword and your person to the North. She says that should be enough for me.” 

_And is it, Lady Arya_? he wanted to ask, but she sidestepped around him and exited the stable before he could say another word.

 

And as he looks at her now, the little girl with her little sword, he finds himself wondering about her lists, whether she’s taken the time to create a new one. _The North remembers,_ he’d been told once. Sansa tries not to remember, works tirelessly to forget, to forgive- “I’ve no interest in vengeance,” she’d told him more than once, and he always felt humbled and impressed to hear it. _It’s more than I could do._

But there’s something nearly as admirable in the strength of Arya’s resolve, in the determination of her memory. She’s a creature of action, swift and thorough and unstoppable. In that, Jaime feels a sort of kinship with the Queen’s Shadow, and he realizes that this is a woman whose respect he’d like to have. 

(It’s been so long since he’d truly cared about earning anyone’s regard, and the realization embarrasses him, just a bit.)

When she buffs the last of the polish from her blade, Arya sheathes it and rises. She does not turn as she speaks to him- “Please tell my sister that I’ve arrived. I’ll be out in the stables for the rest of the day.”

He could choose to be offended- he is the Lord Commander of the North, not a message boy or steward- but he only calls after her- “As you say, my lady.”

After she slips out of the hall, Jaime rises to stretch his legs and head back to Sansa’s chambers. But when he lifts himself from the bench, he knocks the longsword on the floor and winces at the heavy clatter of iron and steel on stone. 

He stoops to lift the weapon from the floor and notices, for the first time in years, the cumbersome weight in his left hand, the heft and the bulk. 

Jaime wonders for a moment what Arya would do if he asked for a lesson in light-weapon swordplay, and he laughs to himself at the thought.


End file.
